


Symbiosis

by deadlybride



Series: the Full House of Wincest [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Grooming, M/M, Panty Kink, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean plans a surprise for his dad.





	Symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> for my 'Full House of Wincest' bingo card for the variations on how this could go, this fills the square 'John intentionally grooms Dean'.
> 
> Originally posted as part of the SpringFling challenge.

Blustery wind outside, and a steady rain sifting down over the Impala's flanks as Dean stares out the window, his cold hands tucked between his knees. Dad's got the tape deck putting out side two of Stand Up, and he's humming along as Ian Anderson sings _nights of winter turn me cold_. Dean taps his thumbs against his thighs along to the guitar solo—can't help it, at this point, it's ground in to his bones—but he's thinking too hard to really appreciate it. Not winter, not yet. Just another autumn, chilly and wet, which means that Sammy's back to school and Dean—well, Sam's old enough to look after himself, mostly, and Dean's not enrolling again, and that means he got to be at Dad's right hand as they drove four hundred miles and took out a couple of werewolves, two silver bullets straight to the heart. Dad clapped him on the shoulder, rough but warm, and his thumb dragged up Dean's neck when he said _good job, son_. Dean just about combusted from trying not to grin too hard. He likes saving people, likes taking out the bad guys—but getting a real dose of praise from Dad, that's something else altogether. What he's hoping to pull off tonight—that could be something else, too.

The blinker clicks and Dean blinks, sits up a little more. They're pulling off the highway, down to—oh, little gas station, one rustbucket truck parked up against the building and a flickery El Sol sign in the window. Dad pulls right up to the pump and taps Dean on the thigh with his wallet. "Twenty bucks on the pump," he says, when Dean takes it, "and get a fifth of something cheap, and get us something that counts as food for dinner."

"Ten bucks?" Dean says, hopeful, and Dad rolls his eyes but nods. The leather of the wallet is still warm from being trapped up against Dad's body.

The clerk doesn't glance twice at his fake ID. He gets the fifth, and four of the kinda okay looking turkey sandwiches in the little cooler this dinky place is calling a 'deli,' and with what's left over from the ten and what he scrounges out of his pockets he buys two sticks of jerky and a Coke in a real glass bottle. "From Mexico," the guy at the counter says. "Real sugar, so it's not too sweet."

Dean takes his bag and grins at the guy. "Just like me," he says, flirting, and the guy's expression flickers but Dean's already out the door, smiling for real. He stands there under the awning, dim rainy afternoon all around, and watches Dad pump the gas. He's been nervous on and off, all day. They're heading back to Sammy, soon, but Dad said they were going to stop and stay the night outside of Stillwater so he could meet up with some contact in the morning. There's a cabin there, that some of the hunters Dad knows use. Private. He realizes he's crinkling the paper bag in his arms and he's gonna crush the sandwiches if he's not careful—he breathes out, tries to let the cool damp air chill out his flushing face, and heads back to the car.

Dad doesn't really smile at him, but he puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck when he comes in close. "What'd you get, kiddo," he says, his ring glancing cold against Dean's skin. Dean shivers, and Dad smiles _then_ , of course, the jerk. He likes the sandwiches, though, even with mayo slathered on too thick. Dean drinks his Coke, slow sips of sugar as the afternoon slips off into night, and Dad likes that, too. He keeps throwing glances across the seat. Dean licks his lips and plays the mouth of the bottle against them, warming the glass with his breath, until finally Dad stretches his arm over the back of the seat and his thumb drifts slow and purposeful over the stretch of skin between Dean's coat collar and his hairline, and Dean takes a long swallow and thinks, goddamn, the hundred miles left to Stillwater can't go by fast enough.

They make it to the cabin around seven o'clock. It's bigger than Dean thought it would be, stone foundation and a big porch, pond off to the side for fishing. A cold wind has picked up and he stands in the yard shifting his weight, dead leaves turning to mulch beneath his boots while Dad finds the key and finally gets the door open, and disables the tripwire right inside it. He jerks his head at Dean to come inside when he's sure it's safe and Dean follows, belly trembling. First thing to do is get set up, though—Dad lays a fire and Dean finds the lanterns, and then the room's full of light and getting warmer, enough that Dean finally takes off his coat and lays his pistol at easy reach on the table. The cabin's nice enough, little kitchenette in the corner and an actual enclosed bathroom, which he goes and makes use of, taking his time. He cleans up and does his belt back up and then looks himself in the eye in the spotty mirror, and takes a deep breath.

"Patrick's supposed to meet me down at the creek road at eight," Dad's saying when he comes out, laying out the guns. His hair's a little damp with the rain and he's let his beard grow out over the past couple of days of the case. Been a little while since Dean's gotten to touch it, since Dad won't do anything when they're really working. Case is over now, though.

"Bar in town," Dad continues, and his back's turned, and he's saying something about maybe heading in, raking in some cash before they scam a new pair of cards—Dean pulls off his boots and sits on the bed, with a creak of springs, and it's kinda dusty but he leans back on his hands, anyway. Dad looks at him and he raises his eyebrows, for a second, but then the corner of his mouth turns up. "Or we could stay in," he says, dry.

"Cards're coming in on Tuesday," Dean says, with a shrug. He licks his lips and Dad's eyes drop real quick. Score.

"You got a better idea?" Dad says, and—oh, his voice is lower. Dean shrugs; Dad rolls his eyes. He leaves the guns and makes sure the door's locked, and then pulls off his black coat and leaves it draped over the couch. "Yeah, shrug away," he says, "like you weren't drinking that Coke like that just to do me in."

The bed's real high, so that when Dad gets in close and knocks Dean's knees open to stand between them Dean only has to tip his head back a little to keep meeting his eyes. "Sorry, sir," he says, grinning. Dad shakes his head and takes hold of the back of his neck, thumb running up into the hollow of Dean's skull. Ever since he was a kid, Dad would grab him right there, hold him there, and now it melts like hot metal under Dean's skin. Means Dad wants him, wants all of him like they can only ever be when they're alone, and he sits up high, clutches his hands into the open fall of Dad's flannel and tugs him down for a kiss, beard scratchy-soft on his chin and Dad's mouth smiling against his.

Oh, and he missed it, missed it enough that he makes a broken-off sound he didn't intend against Dad's lips. Dad kisses deep, strong and thorough, and Dean keeps his eyes closed for a second when Dad pulls back, his tongue heavy with that long familiar taste.

"What's the rules, kiddo," Dad says, voice soft in the dark behind Dean's eyes.

Dean hums, and leans his forehead against Dad's broad chest. Old smoke and a trace of blood, the familiar warm smell of his body. "Never where anyone could see," Dean recites, from long-established memory. "Never when there's a case. Never if I don't want to."

Every time, ever since he was a kid and Dad explained how things worked—it was just them, their family, the three of them against the whole world, and they could only ever rely on each other. Dean understood it then and he understands it now, and even though the rules are dumb—they're a comfort, at this point. Dad strokes his thumb down the back of Dean's neck, dipping below the fraying collar of his washed-to-death Ozzy shirt. "You want to?" Dad says, a deep rumble of promise to his voice, and Dean wraps his hands more firmly into Dad's shirt and pulls him down, so he falls forward into Dean's body with a startled _christ!_ and Dean would laugh, but he's too busy finding Dad's mouth again.

He's kissed, and kissed, and they've been doing this for long enough that it's just comfortable, Dad's mouth just _right_ even without the tinge of whiskey. He pushes Dad's overshirt off his shoulders and clutches the broad span of them, for a moment just clinging, his knees up around Dad's hips, feeling the heat between his legs. Dad rocks in against him, his hand sliding to Dean's ass, and Dean gulps air. Too late to back out now—he worms his hands between them and pushes at Dad's chest, not hard but steady, so that Dad lifts up on his arms planted either side of Dean's body, lifted over him and blocking the firelight. "What's up?" Dad says, rough-edged like he gets when he's making a threat.

Dean takes a breath, plants his elbows and reverse-crawls a few more inches up the bed. He watches Dad's face while his hands go to his belt, and while he pops the button-fly on his jeans, and he's not gonna chicken out until Dad's eyes drop down and then fly wide, and then Dean has to squeeze his eyes shut, his hands freezing.

Long moment of silence, Dean's heart pounding in his ears. "What the hell is this," Dad says, but with his voice real soft.

"That girl I dated a little bit back in Ames," Dean manages. All of four dates, to show the folks in town that that Dean Winchester kid might be bad news but he sure liked the ladies, and Rhonda was happy enough to gossip to her girlfriends about him. Covering their tracks, like they agreed—but it wasn't a total loss. "Gave me the idea."

It was a trick and a half sneaking off to a store where he could get something like this, when Sammy and Dad wouldn't notice, and then to hide them until he got the opportunity. Three months, almost, volunteering for laundry, to get this: Dad nudges his hands out of the way, and he fists them in the quilt, and then one finger drags down from his belly button to the edge of red lace, callus catching a little on the fine fabric.

"Dean," Dad says, expectant, and Dean forces his eyes open to see Dad looking not down at the package of red satin but right at his face, and he knows he's probably about the same color but he can't help it. "Why are you wearing panties?"

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. Dad's still heavy between his legs and he's not moving away. "She said I—I looked pretty," he says. She had, too, laughing.

Dad's not laughing. "That right?" he says. He does back off, then, but only enough to make the room to pull Dean's jeans down and off, and push his t-shirt up his belly so he can see, everything: the satin barely holding Dean's junk in, the lace at the hem, the way they rise up high and feminine to his hips. Dad slips his thumb under one of the leg holes, dragging up the sensitive skin to rub the spur of Dean's hip under the lace. His eyes lift up to Dean's face. "Pretty girl, huh?"

Dean's stomach flips. Oh, god. "Yeah," he breathes, his face so hot he can feel the blood pricking in his cheeks, and Dad covers up his dick with a big broad palm and surges up and kisses him again, tongue shoving in and forcing his mouth wide and oh, oh god, this is so perfectly awesome even beyond what Dean had hoped. Dad bites the soft swell of his lower lip and rubs him through the satin, long fingers burrowing past where his balls are tucked up soft and tight and pressing deep behind, and he says jagged and dark, "Do you want to get fucked in your panties, sweetheart?" and Dean gulps and his dick leaps and he says yes, yes please, oh god yes—

He's flipped onto his belly and Dad groans when he sees the thong back—louder when he digs his fingers down and feels that Dean's already wet, half-ready. Quick squirt of lube from the pocket of Dean's jeans—Dad tugs Dean so that he's leaning over the bed, shaky arms planted on the mattress—and then the blunt nosing prod of Dad's dick, what Dean's been waiting and waiting for, and the slip of a thumb under the silky string of the thong, yanking it to the side just enough for the—oh, that bullish shove in, the shock of entry that makes Dean cry out every time, Dad's grunt low under it, a shove and shove and shove right away just like they both like it, Dad reopening the space for himself inside, a deep pummel of jolty pleasure that comes like a surprise every time, no matter how much Dean fingers himself in the long weeks when he can't get it. Dad's thumbs hook under the waistband of the panties and squeeze Dean's dick tight in the satin, and Dean can't lift his arms because he'll faceplant into the bed, and so he fists the quilt and lets his mouth hang open and arches his hips into it, spreads his legs just that little bit wider and ah, god, it's so good that his thighs are shuddering, his balls and nipples and fingertips tingling with the shock of it. "How's that, baby girl," Dad says, low and rasping, and Dean _does_ crumple down to his elbows then, moaning out loud, because he thought this would work for him but he didn't know how much—he's seen Dad look at chicks, he shared the Anna Nicole Playboy too, and he thought, if he could be that little bit _more_ —and he fumbles a hand down and just rubs through the satin, doesn't even jerk himself, and comes just like that, fast and throbbing and soaking his panties right through. Dad groans out loud and hammers him through the shuddering, long hard in-and-out, jolting Dean against the mattress for long minutes while he tries to brace on his folded arms and lets his hot face drag against the soft quilt until, finally—

When Dad's finished pumping into him he pulls out and then falls down beside Dean, laughing a little like Dad always does when it was good. "Goddamn, kiddo," he says, soft, but Dean's still quivering, his muscles don't seem to want to work. Big hands come down to his shoulders, drag him over and up the bed like he's nine, not nineteen—only now Dad drags him up so he's half-sprawled over Dad's body, wraps a steady arm around his shoulders. God—Dad didn't even take his clothes off, denim scratching at Dean's inner thigh and warm cotton on his cheek. Dean shudders again, and then—ah, the spill down between his thighs, where he's wet and broken-open, not caught at all by the thong. Dad kisses the top of his head, runs a warm hand up his spine under his t-shirt. Dean sighs and burrows his face into Dad's chest, breathes him in.

Dad wakes him up in the grey dawn. His panties are tugged off his hips, and Dad leaves a kiss on his sticky skin. "Take care of the mess," he says, soft in the morning. Dean yawns, and Dad kisses him again before he goes. He scrubs up, cold water smearing away the evidence. The stained quilt he burns in the fire; the panties get washed and hidden in his bag. When Patrick follows Dad into the cabin, later, Dean shakes his hand, like a man, and when Patrick turns away to grab a cup of coffee Dad catches Dean's eyes, glances down below the belt, and Dean tucks a smile away and resolves to find another one of those stores, just as soon as he can. He thinks Dad might like the sheer red stockings and a garter, to match.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/173063669999/symbiosis)


End file.
